Of Icing, Bowties and Brothers
by LadyLilyMalfoy
Summary: Even the great Mycroft Holmes is capable of pre-wedding jitters. Luckily, his best man is on hold to keep him upright.


_A/N: Completed for a prompt. The prompt being -'_**ESME YOU ARE FINISHING THIS OR THEY WILL NEVER GET MARRIED IN MY FIC', **which was left unceremoniously in the middle of my document from my fellow batman, Anwen, to whom this fic is unashamedly dedicated for being my wonderful SherlockCrack!Dealer, encouraging my Mystrade rants and fangirling over the beautiful Rupert Graves. She is a comedy genius, I urge you all to go and spend some time on AO3 with Kyaticlikestea. After you've read this, of course ;)

Enjoy!

* * *

**Of Icing, Bowties and Brothers**

_**A Sherlock Fanfiction**_

_By LadyLilyMalfoy_

No matter which way he pulled and twisted it, Mycroft's bowtie was absolutely refusing to conform. With a loud, long-suffering sigh, he finally gave up and wrenched the blasted thing from around his neck, hurling it into the darkest recesses of the furthest corner and turning his back, shunning it.

Everything was wrong, Mycroft decided, running a hand distractedly through his hair and collapsing – exhausted – onto the unfamiliar bed with its irritatingly sharp hospital corners and confusing layers of eiderdowns, sheets and duvets. Everything was wrong and everything was conspiring against him; the hot food would be cold, the cold food would be warm, the flowers would be wilting, Gregory wouldn't show up and he might as well just go down, steal the cake and eat the whole thing himself because there would be nothing left to live for.

To hell with everything!

Mycroft stood up, feeling empowered. If he was going to be jilted, by the flames of Udun, He was going to make the most of it!

He had not stomped in thirty odd years – not since Sherlock had gifted his Smurfette with a beard and sideburns cunningly crafted from cotton-wool and sulphuric acid – but as Mycroft stomped towards the door of his hotel room, a voice from the heavens sounded in his head, reminding him of the one true truth.

Mycroft wrenched the door open, held up his arms and declared to the world and a very perplexed-looking Sherlock that, "I am a strong, independent woman who don't need no man!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "Oh yes?"

"Yes."

Having been expecting something like this ever since the engagement was announced, Sherlock sighed and patiently ushered his brother back into the bedroom, shutting the door behind them. "Whilst what you say cannot be denied," he said, sitting Mycroft firmly down on the bed before flicking the switch of the small, plastic kettle on, "I really fail to understand the relevance of the statement at this particular moment in time." _'UHT milk…ugh!'_

"There is a military coup in Egypt, the Prime Minister's incompetent and the sofa covers in my living room need to be taken to the dry cleaners – I don't have time to be jilted!"

"Sit _down_."

Mycroft huffed but obeyed, folding his arms across his chest – not an easy feat, considering the amount of starch in his shirt.

"The world is on standby today," Sherlock assured him firmly, "The sofa covers have already been returned from the drycleaners and the Prime Minister has been confined to his room with the _Father Ted_ box set that Anthea bought him from Amazon. Stop your nonsense and drink your tea. _Drink it_."

With a scowl that would freeze the gates of hell and strike terror deep into the hearts of all and sundry, Mycroft raised the mug to his lips and sipped cautiously, then, triumphantly, "Well, isn't that just the icing on the cake!"

"Icing?"

"Yes. Icing. The icing on the cake," Mycroft insisted. "The flowers have wilted, no one has turned up and now you're trying to poison me. The icing is the only good thing to come of this ridiculous fiasco! Where is the cake? I need cake. Get me cake!"

Sherlock had been storing away his patience for months in preparation for this day. He sat down next to his brother and patted his hand sympathetically, saying in his best 'life-_will_-go-on' voice, "I'm afraid I can't do that, Mycroft."

Mycroft made an unnecessarily obscene gesture, accompanied by a long string of threats which included setting world powers on him, stealing his scarf and nuking London and concluded with, "If you don't get me cake, I'll put a stop to your allowance."

"I'm not letting you have cake. It's for you own good, I assure you. You don't want to begin this, admittedly absurd, lifelong journey with a domestic over who's been sticking their fingers in the vanilla butter cream before the reception, do you?"

The scowl turned petulant as the older Holmes muttered something incoherent under his breath.

"Excuse me?"

"I said, if John had been my best man, he'd let me have cake."

"Which is precisely why John _isn't _your best man." Sherlock crossed the room to retrieve the discarded bow-tie. "Come along, Mycroft," he said, holding the disgraced article out to his brother. "Be a good chap and put your tie on. I know it's fashionable to be late for one's wedding, but is it really fair to inflict such unnecessary stress on your husband to be?"

With a long, pained moan, Mycroft's head fell forwards into his hands. "I can't do it. It cannot be done. I concede!"

"You're seriously you want me to call off the wedding just because-"

Mycroft's head shot up. "What? No! I'm talking about the tie! It's impossible! It's scheming against me! It's its fault that everything is going wrong!"

"What's going wrong?" Sherlock asked patiently, slowly edging towards Mycroft with the strip of black silk.

"The flowers-"

"Are fine."

"The cake-"

"Is the embodiment of perfection. The champagne is chilled, the serviettes are folded," Sherlock continued firmly before his brother had time to open his mouth again, "nobody is arguing, everyone is in their seats and Lestrade is going out of his mind. The only thing missing is-"

Shaking hands grabbed at Sherlock's lapels, grey eyes wild with anxiety. "What?" Mycroft demanded. "What's missing? If it's the favours, I had Anthea check and double check that we'd ordered the right thing but she never said anything about how long they would take to arrive! Ring her! Ring her now! Tell her to-"

"Mycroft, it's not the favours! The favours are fine."

"The ice-sculpture..." tears sprang into Mycroft's eyes at the thought, "it hasn't...it's melted, hasn't it? It's melted and flooded the foyer beyond repair! Global warming has struck and is ruining my wedding day! Tell Anthea to-"

"The only person intent upon ruining this day is _you_!"

Mycroft shut his mouth, with a highly affronted expression. "I beg your pardon?"

Sherlock fixed him with the same Big Brother expression he employed to break into Baskerville. "You may only have it if you stop your silliness and put on your tie. I'm not walking you down the aisle without it."

A suspicious glance was hurled towards the length of material dangling from Sherlock's hand. Then, with a tentative look up at his brother, "Would you mind helping me with it?"

Hiding his smile, Sherlock slipped the bowtie around the other man's neck and, turning the stiff white collar up, proceeded to flip one end over the other with deft fingers, feeling Mycroft begin to relax as he worked.

"Better?" Sherlock murmured pulling the bow taut and folding the collar down before straightening it with a scrupulous eye.

Mycroft nodded silently, allowing a long-captive breath to finally escape. "Actually, I'm bricking it," he confessed, left hand reaching instinctively for the empty space on his right where his ring had once been. "I don't know why. It's completely illogical and irrational and unfounded and such but... Oh god!" Long fingers raked through his hair, hiding his face once more as the enormity of the situation threatened to overwhelm him again.

Sherlock regarded his big brother with slight disconcertion, unsure of what ought to be said. Affairs of the Heart, unfortunately, had been carefully stored in the same place as Knowledge of the Solar System – in an unlabelled box somewhere in the attic. Giving up on words, Sherlock sat down and put an awkward arm around Mycroft's shoulders with what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze.

The brothers looked sideways at each another with identical crooked smiles.

"You know you're being completely stupid, don't you?" Sherlock offered good-naturedly.

Mycroft looked down with a soft chuckle. "I suppose I am, aren't I?"

"Are you going to stop now?"

Twisting the kinks out of his neck, Mycroft sighed and rose to his feet, smoothing down his trousers as he did so. "I think that would probably be a wise decision."

Sherlock nodded approvingly and wandered over to the door where Mycroft's morning coat was hung. Slipping the heavy herringbone garment from its hanger, he offered it to his brother who was fussing with his waistcoat. "You look fine," Sherlock told him, helping Mycroft shrug into the coat. "Stop faffing."

"I'm not faffing," said Mycroft, faffing with his sleeves. "Where's my buttonhole?"

"Oh, didn't I mention it?" Sherlock asked casually, thrusting his hands into his pockets where the tiny bouquet of jasmine and ivy wrapped around a lily was concealed. "It wilted."

For a single, horrific moment, Mycroft felt his heart stop beating. Then, landing a less-than-affable thump on Sherlock's arm, "Don't be a dick."

Sherlock smirked and handed him the distinctly alive corsage.

* * *

The gently lilting melody of Pachelbel's Canon filtered through the closed doors leading into the main hall and promptly brought Mycroft out into a cold sweat. He reached up with a shaking hand to loosen his bowtie.

Glancing across, Sherlock reached quickly out before any damage could be done and took the hand, tucking it securely through his arm. "Ready?"

Mycroft was rigid. "No."

"Good. Come on."

* * *

A/N: For anyone marginally interested, here are the meanings of the flowers - White Lily = Sweetness, Ivy = Fidelity, Wedded Love, Affection, Friendship, and Jasmine = Modesty, Grace, Elegance.


End file.
